


Fruitful Discussion

by Tiriel_35 (Fritiriel)



Category: Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Instructive!Frodo and at least one serious canon error, M/M, Possibly best avoided by the lactose-intolerant due to a cavalier, Romance, Shaky semantics and excruciating puns, Shameless utilisation of garden produce for purposes of erotic play, The mixture as before in fact, deployment of dairy goods, if thankfully brief, plus cliché galore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-13
Updated: 2012-11-13
Packaged: 2017-11-18 14:22:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/562012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fritiriel/pseuds/Tiriel_35
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Words, words, words - and a couple of numbers</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fruitful Discussion

‘It’s funny how some words can sound more or less the same – even look more or less the same - and still mean different things,’ said Sam. 

‘Mm!’ Frodo agreed, encouragingly. He was lying on his back, revelling in the warmth and the peculiar sensation of sun-flickered light and shade through closed eyelids, almost tangible across his face. Beyond the flutter of leaves the sky was a huge and almost empty blue with just one small froth of milky cloud floating aimlessly away over to the west. Soft summer air seemed to purr a throaty hum from the countless bees that bumbled industriously from flower to flower, a comfortable bass note to his contentment. 

It had been a stray thought, as to what it might be like to be a bee, which had prompted Sam’s idle observation. ‘It’s no wonder you spend so long re-working your translations,’ he added now.

‘Mmm?’ Frodo was far too comfortable to worry about philology just now, but more than willing to listen to anything Sam might have to say, simply to have his golden voice threading the murmurous afternoon sunshine. He was rather glad they had decided to have tea out in the garden, here at the back of Bag End. Their nook was secluded enough; completely hidden from the lane, it was approachable only through an elaborate grove of close grown shrubs, which Sam had, unaccountably in the eyes of his Gaffer, ceased to prune into the tidy, easily negotiated shapes Mr Bilbo had favoured. 

‘Well, I’m leaning against the bole of this tree, eating strawberries from this bowl and on Highday, I shall bowl for the team,’ Sam went on, and couldn’t help but notice this was a somewhat one-sided conversation. He suspected Frodo might be about to drift off to sleep; not unlikely, in view of the fact that they had been up rather late the previous night – both senses of that word. And awake early.

He selected another strawberry, a particularly fine and succulently ripe one, dipping deep into the dish of double cream before raising it towards his mouth. Despite those seemingly closed eyes, however, there was a sudden and pitiful little sound, falling somewhere between the whimper of a hungry puppy and a rather less innocent pleading. 

With a sigh that was not altogether resigned, Sam set the cream-covered morsel to Frodo’s lips. This time the ‘Mmmm!’ was appreciative, though whether of the fruit, of Sam’s compliance, or of the actual taste was unclear. Frodo’s tongue disposed of the cream in slow, languid and very visible licks, thoughtfully cleaning every trace from Sam’s fingers before he took the entire berry skilfully between his lips and began to suck it in and out, slowly. 

It was there - it was gone – there again - gone. The strawberry throbbed in and out of Frodo’s mouth, to an accompaniment of appreciative little purrs and trills; and all the while, Frodo’s eyes were closed, the better to concentrate, the better to tease his Sam.

Then the berry was somehow balanced so Frodo could revolve it, dark and delicious between temptingly full lips. His wicked tongue was stroking it, teasing at the tip, then diving into the gap left by the hull, probing and flickering, stroking and caressing. Juice oozed freely, stickily red, smearing so generously that Frodo’s tongue must slide to and fro, gathering up the delicious trail to leave warm pink glistening damply in its wake.

Sam’s breathing quickened considerably, and by the time the fruit was finally permitted to disappear for good he needed no further convincing that there were other even more enjoyable ways to pass a warm afternoon in the garden than eating, strawberries and cream notwithstanding. Fairly soon, too.

Frodo had noted the change in Sam’s breathing, and smiled naughtily. ‘That was very pleasant,’ he said, as neutrally as he could manage, for Sam had not been the only one to be affected by his play with the berry. ‘You were saying?’ he asked, assuming a tone now full of interest. 

Sam looked down at Frodo’s head in his lap, catching the last of the smile as it faded into raised brows of spurious inquiry over tightly closed lids. _Two can play at that game, Frodo Baggins!_ He took advantage of the fact that Frodo really couldn’t see him now, to eat the next strawberry himself, though it took some effort to keep his mind on the _taste_ of the fruit. 

‘Yes, indeed,’ he said then, with an equally feigned air of deep concentration. ‘Words which sound or even look the same but mean entirely different things. Or the other way around. I expect there’s a name for them.’ The last was pitched interrogatively, but Frodo remained silent. Sam looked down again. Surely he couldn’t have gone to sleep now? Not after such a promising tease? 

A tiny wrinkle appeared on Frodo’s nose, as it always did when he concentrated; it affected Sam now, just as it always did. And Frodo had no idea he was doing it, thought Sam, shifting slightly to ease a certain growing tightness, not that it helped at all; quite the opposite, in fact, Frodo’s head being where it was.

The wrinkling deepened to a frown, and Frodo said in a querulous tone, ‘I can’t remember!’ His eyes snapped open and Sam swallowed. He had to find a way of resisting them one day, he thought; but right now, the play with the fruit had already ensured he was feeling, well, rather fruity, himself, and resistance was the last thing on his mind.

‘Not to worry,’ he said soothingly, stroking away the frown with gentle fingers. ‘It isn’t important. I just wondered, that was all.’ He moved again, and the friction, though minimal, was extremely enjoyable. They sat together in the humming haze of sunshine, Sam threading his fingers through Frodo's hair, twisting a capricious curl over and again, as his thoughts wandered inevitably from the possibilities inherent within vocabulary, to those which were rather more tactile.

‘I wonder whether the weather will stay fine?’ Frodo asked, airily.

‘Should do,’ answered Sam, ever the gardener even with mind (and tongue) rather entangled in a vision of his Frodo clad in nothing more than a strategic sprinkle or two of strawberry juice over a liberal coating of cream. ‘The cloud’s high and sparse, no sign of— ’ He stopped with a groan, unable to believe he'd fallen for that one.

Frodo smirked. ‘Do you think I could have more fruit, please, Sam? And would you positively _bury_ the _berry_ in cream for me, this time?’

‘I shall do as you _want_ ,’ Sam said formally, his hand hovering selectively over the fruit, ‘as is my _wont_.’ 

‘Make sure you _choose_ one that _chews_ well!’ Frodo bit his lip on a grin as he said it.

Sam snorted, but dipped generously nonetheless, stroking Frodo’s lips with the cream-laden strawberry until they were as liberally daubed as possible. ‘Dear me,’ he said then, in a very innocent tone. ‘I seem to have covered you in cream. Perhaps I should remove it for you?’

‘I expect there is a napkin to hand somewhere?’ This berry, Frodo disposed of without ceremony, knowing full well that his Sam needed no further inducement of the herbaceously fructiferous kind.

‘Not that I can see.’ And if Sam were wilfully ignoring the one in plain view on the moss by Frodo’s right hand, it seemed Frodo could be equally neglectful in a good cause. ‘Dear me. It will weigh very heavily on me, if I can't find a way of cleaning it from your mouth.’

‘What do you suggest?’ Frodo asked, with an enticingly creamy smile. His tongue loitered redly for a moment or two and Sam leaned closer.

‘Well, this might work.’ Sam's own tongue set to work, laving busily, and Frodo lay quiet and let him; and only the speeding breaths against Sam's face gave any indication that he was at all affected by such assiduous activity.

Sam sat back again - quickly, whilst he still could. ‘There you are,’ he announced, not without difficulty. ‘All clean!’

‘I’m sure you have missed some,’ Frodo said petulantly. ‘Come down here, and I’ll show you.’

‘No, I got it all,’ Sam said firmly, though not easily for it must be admitted that other things were firmer still.

‘In that case, I shall have to have another one!’ A smile almost got the better of the intended pout.

‘But it’s _my_ turn!’ Sam dipped and licked, laved and sucked, before finally consuming the strawberry, and whilst he knew he hadn’t achieved quite the same level of proficiency Frodo had displayed, he was not displeased with the result, for Frodo wriggled suddenly (more delicious friction) then rose to his knees, catching Sam’s face between his hands. 

‘Sam Gamgee, you are a rascal!’ Frodo kissed him briefly. ‘You sit here eating strawberries and cream and hardly give me any at all.’ He even managed to sound a trifle disgruntled as he added, ‘It's only fair, to share such delicious fare!’

‘Every time I had one or two, I gave the same to you, too!’ Sam retorted, his laugh quickly silenced as Frodo pushed him down onto the moss and took his mouth again, long and slowly this time.

‘I think,’ Frodo said eventually, ‘I need to teach you a lesson, my Sam!’

‘Oh, aye?’ Sam mumbled, somewhat less than articulately; but then, he’d little or no concentration to spare to the formulation of sentences, not with Frodo’s mouth hovering so close above his own, those eyes upon him, brilliant and deep enough to drown the unwary - or even the wary, Sam thought, knowing he had never stood a chance once he had dared to look back. And since Frodo's offer of disciplinary enlightenment was unlikely to be confined to the theoretical, Sam would infinitely rather defer conversation in favour of the undoubted benefits of practical tuition.

‘Much as I hate to wrest you from your rest, I feel you should pay attention - hear me here and now, in fact!’

Sam's groan was not entirely the result of Frodo's words; he might have insisted that, actually, he _was_ , but realised Frodo would probably gather as much if he just— 

Yes. He gathered. Mmm, yes, he really did.

Frodo, in such educative mood, induced in Sam an ecstatic inner squirm, for some of his earlier teachings had been nothing short of inspirational. He was, for instance, a wonderful exemplar when it came to the linguistic agility required for the proper pronunciation of certain elvish words; and he dispensed invaluable advice on obtaining the necessary variable liquidity, being more than patient with a learner and even more willing to provide demonstration at length and in considerable breadth of detail and depth of repetition. Slowly. 

In more practical vein, Sam cherished particularly the memory of the day he had first learned that there were several other uses for the salve he had kept in the woodshed merely against chapped hands; or indeed, he had subsequently discovered - in copious and variously situated detail - for any substance with suitably lubricative properties.

‘These words,’ Frodo reminded Sam, sternly, ‘the ones which sound or look either similar or the same, but mean different things – for which I can still not remember the name.’ He frowned, and shook his head. ‘You have a lot to answer for, Sam Gamgee, distracting me like this!’

‘Well I’d not like to think I’d got meself all in a knot for naught!’ Sam said guilelessly.

Frodo tutted, and kissed his nose, refusing to be sidetracked as yet. ‘There - you see? there are a great many such words that we can share, if we put our minds to it,’ he insisted. 

Sam already knew his mind to be well and truly _on_ it, but doubted that was entirely what Frodo meant right now.

‘I think perhaps that if we were to share a few, I might remember the correct term, though you will need to lie very still, and concentrate carefully. With your ears, especially.’

Sam felt like saying that he rarely listened with anything else, and then realised it depended on your definition of concentrating. He was certainly alert, whichever way you looked at it.

But Frodo wasn’t looking; not there, at least. He had eased himself sideways, slightly, his mouth now snugly level with Sam’s left ear. 

‘Take the words _oral_ and _aural_ , for example. These are often confused. Aural, you see,’ he said instructively, ‘has to do with ears.’ He blew very, very gently, knowing exactly the effect of damp air in carefully diminishing circles; by now, he had an extremely detailed working knowledge of which parts - which _other_ parts - of Sam were particularly responsive to such delicate treatment. His breath was hot and sweet, and although Sam’s concentration might be slipping more than a little, his attention was suddenly quite rigid. 

‘Whereas oral,’ Frodo’s tongue traced the edge of Sam’s ear from tip to lobe, ‘means of or relating to the mmm... ’ a low hum, throaty and provocative, as he suckled gently, letting go only when it seemed Sam’s ability to lie still under such provocation had been tested to the absolute limit ‘...mouth.’ He smiled satisfaction at Sam’s involuntary shiver.

‘Do you think you might remember the difference, Sam? Aural,’ and now his rising desire was clear, his breathing quick and needy, ‘of the ears.’

‘Ahhah!’ Sam repeated, as best he could.

‘And oral,’ Frodo relinquished Sam’s ear reluctantly, one last quick nibble to the lobe, laying a trail of tiny kisses to and around Sam’s lips, ‘of the mouth.’ 

‘Ohhhh!’ was even less distinct, but as this was wholly due to the position of Frodo's own mouth, he was quite satisfied with Sam’s achievement – and more so with his willingness to co-operate.

He took Sam’s bottom lip gently between his own, and teased it back and forth, his tongue slipping easily within, smiling as Sam tensed beneath such incitement. Pausing to settle himself more conveniently - Sam was not, after all, the only participant here, and a certain adjustment had become highly necessary to Frodo's level of comfort and indeed to his continuing ability to participate at all - he returned to his task. Gathering the neglected top lip, he suckled lightly, sending his tongue once more to seek out those places which he knew would force Sam to catch his breath, releasing it at last in a long and blissful sigh.

‘You know, Sam,’ he said, pausing every few words to punctuate his meaning with lips and tongue, ‘after that first time we kissed, and I knew you were wanting more, just as I was, I walked around in a daze for days. Knowing that it wasn’t a dream any longer, that our kisses were real, simply made my head reel.’ 

His words might be chosen deliberately but Sam knew the truth of every one. ‘Aye,’ he managed, ‘I had my eye on you - I was already caught, afore ever you started to court me!’

Making love with words, serious or teasing, common or elvish, was another delight Frodo had taught him. Soft, sensuous words whispered long and slow against his skin, Frodo's voice husky and open and honest, his warm breath promise-filled, flowing full and gentle to wind Sam through with tendrils of want that wreathed tighter at every sound, spiralling desire as surely as any caress. Words to sear his mind as surely as Frodo's touch set his body to flame, a branding of love that bound Sam to Frodo and Frodo to him with links invisible as air, tenacious as _hithlain_. 

He had believed his own words clumsy - harsh and inelegant, as though they might rasp hurt to Frodo’s skin. But Frodo showed him otherwise; that this spreading flush - red haze writ fine over creamy perfection - arose willingly from within, his tangible translation of Sam’s fervent murmuring of love.

Time now for deed not word – lose and loose, clothes and close, and even bear and bare escaped them, for neither could bear it if they didn’t— _Ah, there!_

Frodo sighed aloud, satisfaction blended into want as soft skin pushed hard need against him. Sam’s reply was another groan cut off sharply in a kiss, and if _grown_ skittered through Frodo’s mind, it was no more than judicious, if transient, observation, and an extremely appreciative tribute to Sam at that. He did manage to wonder, rather vaguely - and only the subject matter at hand (as it were) could have given rise (also as it were) to the thought - whether he could elicit another sound so deliciously illicit. The translation of thought into word would have taxed faculties which had the practical in mind right then, rather than any irrelevant linguistic formulation; thought into action proved far simpler, he discovered with satisfaction, for, of course, he _could_.

But suddenly there was talking and laughing in the lane beyond the smial - far enough off to ignore, perhaps, but near enough to serve as reminder; Daisy’s tone and accents were clear, if the matter of her tale was not. 

Frodo realised at once, not only the sad fact that they had not thought (having made so very free with it last night and again this morning) to need any of Sam’s own specially blended, soothingly aromatic concoction, but also that they could not have used it without a caution which would be both too restricting and too easily forgotten. They must be wary of any sound which spoke too loudly of appreciation by him of anything other than Sam’s gardening skills; or the escape of ‘ _Frodo!_ ’ at such a level and so completely bereft of the customary and respectful designation that by no stretch even of the Widow Rumble’s innocent imagination could it be supposed a deferential Gamgee response even to some major horticultural mishap.

‘Shhh!’ Frodo said, voice breaking somewhere between laughter and desire, the admonition somewhat unfair, considering the direction in which his tongue was questing.

‘Can’t!’ Sam panted. Had he the thought to spare, he’d have defied any hobbit to remain unmoved, what with Frodo’s hands where they were, and Frodo’s mouth where it— _‘Ahhh!’_

‘My Samwise,’ Frodo murmured now, low and breathy enough to affect Sam severely, touch or no. A slither of his tongue, and Sam was temporarily incapable of other than a further long-drawn, incoherent yet completely unmistakable sound. ‘My Sam, you’re not allowed to moan aloud - we must be quite quiet!’

Sam shivered and blinked back to awareness. ‘I love you!’ he said, which, though gratifying, scarcely answered to the present problem. He had understood, though, for he squirmed around, breath shredding into need as his head pillowed on the smooth enticement of Frodo’s thigh. He gasped sharply then, for Frodo scarcely waited to offer his first nuzzled caress, hitching Sam’s breath even as he reached to take Frodo in. 

This they had learned together, how to render a tasting lap exquisite torture – to linger over and around, slipping away quickly, loitering once more, relenting at last in suckled kisses. Frodo’s tongue delved skilfully, pointed tip knowing just how far an insidious glide or flicker might be spun before it must retreat, allowing Sam to regain, and take, control. Sam’s own mouth was no less practised at this teasing dalliance – circling here, fluttering intently there; temptation in every touch, he inveigled his Frodo inexorably towards the edge, drawing back then, to return to him the task of bringing Sam to the brink once more.

At first and as ever it passed unhurriedly between them, this alternation of ascendancy, of taste and be tasted – the steady stoking of a fire whose embers never truly cooled, were only banked against the next time desire was fanned to flame by the lightest thing – a glance, a touch, a wicked smile - between them. 

And they were quiet, the only sounds low and liquid; their need was no less, gasped out in greater giving, the response no less fluent for its almost-silence. Breath flared hot over damp and desperate skin, and languid movement shifted to a keener rocking with every back and forth, each eager plunge or shallow, coaxing sip. Little by more over minutes uncounted, control strained against ragged panting, and careful thrusts sped to faster rhythms of breath and blood. There was no Frodo now, no Sam, only this final, frantic haste of eager hands and the blurred heat of a willing mouth - until one swallowed deep to pull the last of pleasure from his love in a groan that echoed around and over, drawing from the other everything he had to give.

They rested thus, spent in the best of causes, until Frodo tugged Sam up to lie beside him. ‘I have been deeply deceived in you, Samwise Gamgee!' he said, a satisfied smile rather defeating his pretence at a scold. 'Time was, I believed there could be no shyer hobbit in the Shire, but you prove me wrong, yet again!’ And any lingering hint of accusation was smoothed away in the brief caress of fingers to Sam’s cheek.

‘I had to be the one who won your heart!’ Sam fluttered his eyelashes in the most approved shy-maiden manner, but his voice was as solemn as ever Frodo had heard it. 

‘Yes,’ said Frodo, ‘I know.' And kissed him.

 

[](http://www.statcounter.com/)

**Author's Note:**

> The word of which Frodo (quite understandably) loses track might have been homonym, homophone or homograph; he was so distracted, I never actually found out which he had in mind. He might possibly—had not far more important matters absorbed his attention—have decided upon one or another. But, since the temptation to use _hobbitnym/phone/graph_ would have been considerable, I considered it wiser not to press the point, for even I have my limits.


End file.
